


Una Bella Notte

by SapphicReverie



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:49:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23713222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphicReverie/pseuds/SapphicReverie
Summary: An AU twist featuring Joan as an Italian mafiosa.
Relationships: Joan Ferguson/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Una Bella Notte

**Author's Note:**

> This started as Twitter antics, then I ran with it.....and maybe got a little carried away. :)  
> Big shout out to the ladies that helped get this ball rolling, LOL!
> 
> Also, this is my first attempt at writing in second person, so go easy on me, ok? ;-)
> 
> And lastly, I did a little bit of research on Sicily/the mafia when I started this fic, but didn't deep dive, so forgive any liberties I have taken in regards to scenery/distances and the like. You'll also see that I've amended Joan's name slightly, to better fit the Italian theme.

Giovanna Spataro. 

Or Joan, as those in her inner circle call her. A tight group of trusted individuals that you had found yourself the pleasure of being inducted into almost a year ago. You’d met her only a year prior to that, when your cousin Carlo had submitted you for the job as her private chef. Your Le Cordon Bleu training and decade plus in Michelin star restaurants had cinched the job for you instantly. 

She’d been sent straight from Sicily by her elderly uncle, Don Mangano, to serve as acting boss of the Gambino clan of the Cosa Nostra until a new capo could be selected. It was typically a job reserved for men, but no one dared question the intimidating, yet intoxicating older woman. She led with a confidence and intelligence that no man could ever touch; and an effortless sensuality that drove them all wild, which she relished for the sheer power it afforded her. Men always seek what they can never have, and Joan was no exception. They all craved a place in her bed, but no, that sacred spot was reserved for only the fairer sex. 

When the call came for her to return to Palermo just a month ago, she told you over a bottle from her private collection and with it, extended the invitation for you to continue your culinary services there. Untethered to anything in Manhattan, and propelled by your growing intoxication for her, it took all of five seconds for you to accept, producing an indulgent smile on her full lips as her dark eyes twinkled with pleasure, further igniting your desire for those same lips to trace along the column of your neck. 

You’d arrived just two weeks ago and after a whirlwind of sorting the kitchen to your needs and ordering the essentials for a well-stocked commercial affair, she’d offered you a weekend getaway, to the “culinary capital of Sicily” as she had called it, a slight smirk curving the corner of her mouth. Again you willingly accepted, eager to get away to see more of the island and excited by the prospect of alone time with her. In Manhattan and Palermo the house was always filled with other people, all watchful eyes, hungry for any gossip they could devour. Everyone knew of Joan’s persuasion, but no one ever knew specifics about her lovers; she had always taken great care to keep that aspect of her life safely guarded. Not that you were in that elite group of individuals, aside from in your near constant daydreams, but you were eager to get a glimpse of the stern woman when she felt more at ease and the fortress walls were a little less fortified. 

It’s Friday early evening when you meet her in the drive, an overnight bag and picnic basket in tow. The early summer Sicilian sun shines bright overhead, imbuing the air with radiant warmth. Your linen summer dress affords a glimpse of bare shoulders and decolletage, a blank canvas for the sun to leave it’s sweep of color. She’s leaned against the body of a cherry red ‘62 Alfa Romeo convertible and she looks absolutely divine. Her pinstripe palazzo pants cover her generous hips, but the skin tight black cotton tee she wears puts her torso on full display. She’s not wearing a bra and she catches your wandering gaze as it drops from her face and lingers momentarily on her gravity defying breasts and she smiles slyly when you look back up again, your cheeks flushing to nearly match the car she’s perched against. You can tell by the smile though that her onyx eyes are absolutely twinkling with delight behind the large black sunglasses she is wearing.

“Well, come along, we’ll arrive just before sunset if we set off now,” she says as she walks to the back of the car to open the boot. You scurry along, dropping your bag and basket inside before closing it gingerly and jumping in the passenger seat as she ties a silk Versace scarf around her hair. She reminds you of Sophia Loren in photos from the 60s, her sharp features highlighted by the black and gold pattern against her smooth porcelain skin, and a warm buzz ignites in your belly.

The ride to Castelvetrano is mostly silent as you drive through the Monti Sicani, with its breathtaking vistas of gold-green plains punctuated by high rocky mountains. As you come into the golden valley, about ten kilometers outside of the small town, Joan turns off onto a narrow lane that meanders toward the base of a nearby crest. You sit up in your seat as you watch the gold-brown waves of buffelgrass give way to cultivated rows of mid-season olive trees. She sees your piqued interest and offers an amused smile.

“An olive orchard?” You ask curiously as she drives around the bend and a small cottage comes into view. It’s obviously a well-tended and functioning orchard, but there’s not a soul in sight when you pull into the semi-circle drive at the front door. Turning off the ignition, she removes her glasses and offers a small smile. “Yes. It’s been in my family for nearly a century. Only the staff know who owns it and we keep the house for private use only.” That twinkle returns to her dark gaze again when she puts a slight emphasis on the word  _ private  _ as she shares this family secret. You smile wide in return, dipping your head slightly at the knowledge that you’ve been allowed into something so closely guarded.

Making your way into the house, your eyes wander around the exquisite antique furnishings interspersed with modern touches of elegance. You follow her into the kitchen, which lies at the back of the house and overlooks a modest garden surrounded by expertly landscaped bougainvillea bushes full to bursting in rich magenta blooms. Pulling the scarf from her head, she places it on the kitchen island and reaches for the basket in your hand. The move is interrupted by the sound of La Traviata, the birdsong of the soprano’s voice as it whistles through the pocket of her pants. She retrieves her phone, a look of irritation clearly plastered across her face as she glances at the screen. With an apologetic smile she looks up to you and speaks over the trill, “My apologies, but I need to take this. Make yourself at home, have a look around. You can place your bag in the bedroom at the end of the hall.”

She turns her back to you then and answers the phone, a brief pause as she listens to the person on the other end before she replies sternly, “I don’t care if he’s Lorenzo’s son, we must cut out the rot before it kills the tree.” Another pause and her eyes turn cold before she bursts onto the terrace, a stream of angry Italian following her blazing path. You stare, momentarily dumbfounded by her ability to pass from borderline sultry to sizzling wrath in a mere nanosecond. You find her passion absolutely spellbinding, unpredictable and potentially dangerous as it can be. 

You take your time on the journey down the hall, observing all the portraits along the walls and looking into the open doors of the rooms as you pass. The first is a small office, with a desk against the far wall and a small circular window looking out onto the drive just above it. The next room is a study, lined with built-in bookshelves bursting with old books, their vibrant colors grown dull beneath a layer of Sicilian dust. A rich hunter green wingback chair resides in a corner, it’s velvet upholstery in mint condition, almost shining as it’s hit by the setting sun that beams through the ancient window. Reaching the end of the hall, you step into the room. A four poster bed lies in the center, large and draped in plush white linens. Suddenly you realize it’s the only room that contains a bed and your heart quickens pace as you register what that means, that warm tingle tugging at your belly once again.

In the en suite, you tidy yourself, releasing your hair from the bun you had drawn it into for the journey here. It cascades around your jaw, tickling against your skin and sending a prickling tug at your scalp. You can feel the nervous energy at it begins to vibrate, anticipation thick for what lies ahead. Is she seducing you? Does she plan for more than just sleep in that luxurious bed? With a nervous exhale, you cast one last glance into the mirror before turning back to meet her in the kitchen. 

She’s nowhere in sight when you return, gone too is the basket of hors d’oeuvres that you prepared, but you notice a small slip of paper on the counter and pick it up to read a message scrawled in Joan’s neat hand.  _ Meet me in the garden.  _ Like a good mouse, you follow the command. Stepping out onto the terrace, you scan the lush landscape in the fading light, but don’t see Joan anywhere. Then the sound of running water registers in your ears and you realize it’s coming from behind a tall but narrow hedge that sits behind the circular pond that lies before you. As you make your way around it, the running water stops, and when you cross behind the hedge your mouth nearly falls open. 

There’s an old clawfoot tub situated above a heating unit and an oil lamp burns dimly just a few feet away. The charcuterie board you had packed is laid out on a small table near the head of the tub, along with a bottle of marsala and two glasses. In the tub sits Joan, a sultry smile spreads across her luscious mouth as she watches your awestruck expression. Her long arms drape lazily over the edges and she lifts her right hand, slowly curling an elegant finger to beckon you closer. “Won’t you join me?” She purrs seductively, turning slightly to pour the glasses of wine. 

You hesitate only briefly before stepping closer, slipping your sandals from your feet before slowly drawing your linen dress over your head. Her dark eyes watch with interest, an appreciative smile drawing across her full pout as she sees the low slung lace that hugs your hips and the matching strapless balconette. Your heart races as you reach behind and unfasten the clasp, allowing the bra to fall free of your generous breasts. She licks her bottom lip slowly and never breaks her intense gaze as she watches the slinky lace underwear as you draw them down your thighs. Shifting in the tub, she draws her knees to her chest to make room for you on the opposite end.

You step into the gently steaming water, sinking gradually into the enveloping warmth that releases the tension in your limbs. She extends a glass of wine toward you and you take it, your bottom lip falling open as her long legs unfurl and she slips her feet against your hips. She inhales deeply and takes a long sip of her wine, head falling back languidly in pleasure. “It’s been too long since the last time I was here,” she purrs as she takes another swallow from her chalice. Overhead the sky paints a watercolor fresco of pinks and orange against a backdrop of ever darkening blue and you can’t help but think this must be paradise.

“Do you bring all your women here?” You ask it before you have the good sense to stop yourself and you can feel the burning blush as it creeps across your chest. She lifts her head from the end of the tub, her umber gaze briefly flashing something unreadable, before she slowly responds, “No. You’re the only person I’ve ever brought here. I thought you would appreciate its rugged beauty.” Instantly you feel like a fool and you reach forward, laying your hand atop her’s that lingers on the edge. “I’m sorry, that was an inappropriate and unnecessary question. Please forgive me.” Her gaze softens slightly as she watches you and the obvious worried expression plastered across your face. “I...I do appreciate it, by the way. It’s breathtaking.” You say with a shy smile as you meet her piercing stare.

You feel her hand as it turns beneath your own and her long fingers weave themselves between yours. You’re surprised to see such tenderness from a woman that usually cuts diamonds with her icy glare. You always sensed there was something softer beneath all the frosty glares and aloof demeanor, but you’d only ever dreamed of getting a glimpse of that hidden underbelly. She finishes the last sip of her wine and sits up, her creamy breasts finally breaching the water’s rippling surface and your gaze is immediately drawn to their sheer perfection. You feel the slow burn of lust as it spreads low in your belly. She sees it in your hungry gaze and flashes a mischievous smile.

“May I...wash your hair?” she mewls, her tongue sliding out to sweep across her bottom lip. Too aroused for words, you simply nod and allow her to turn you until you’re nestled between her thighs. She leans you back slowly, gently lowering your head into the water as she pours it across your brow from an old metal pitcher she retrieves from the side of the tub. Strong fingers graze your scalp as she washes your thick tresses, filling your nose with the scent of grapefruit and mint. The orange burn of the sun finally slips below the horizon and you lose yourself in the erotic pleasure of the moment, your eyes slipping closed as she continues her kneading massage of your scalp.

Finally she rinses the last suds from your hair and coaxes you to sit up as she places the shampoo and pitcher back on the ground. The cooling night air licks across your bare breasts, drawing your nipples into stiff points and sending a shiver down your spine. Long limbs curl around you and draw you in, until your back sits flush against her chest, her strong arms wrapping around your waist as your head nestles into the crook of her neck. You inhale deeply and watch as the dark around you begins to flicker flash with the dance of fireflies as they move toward the oil lamp burning nearby. 

A long while passes as you langor in the tub, a comfortable silence descending as the steady chirp of crickets provides a natural symphony. Her fingers trace lazy, delicate patterns against your skin. Caught by a chill, you suddenly shiver and she momentarily squeezes tighter before releasing you and leaning into your ear. Warm breath bathes the side of your neck as her lips glance teasingly across your earlobe. “Let’s go inside, you’re shivering,” she mewls before she shifts you forward and rises from the cooling water. You look up, spellbound, as she wraps her Junoesque frame in a rich silk robe of midnight blue with watercolor lavenders printed along the bottom hem. From the nearby chair she retrieves a fleece throw and wraps you up as you exit the tub, running her firm hands down your arms to generate warmth.

Extinguishing the oil lamp, she collects the charcuterie tray and hands you the bottle of wine before you make your way back inside the house. She slips the board into the fridge before she turns back to you, her dark eyes sparkling in the low light generated from the lamp she switched on above the stove. Drawing you in by a fold of the blanket, she steps forward and whispers in your ear, “I think, perhaps, tonight I’d like to dine in the bedroom.” She draws away and the smile on her face is downright salacious.

Her hand lingers on the blanket until the distance between you becomes too great, and she casts an expectant gaze over her left shoulder as she moves off down the hall. Your eyes devour the sumptuous curve of her hips and ass as they undulate beneath the whisper thin silk with each step. Her raven hair rests against her back, coaxed to subtle waves at the ends from the damp of the bath. When she reaches the room, she switches on a small lamp that sits atop the dresser near the door. It’s soft amber light just barely reaches the large bed, creating the perfect ambiance for seduction. She turns to face you then, her intense gaze locked on yours as her hands reach up to unfasten the belt before she draws the silk open, exposing her tall, ivory frame to your greedy eyes. You bite your bottom lip unconsciously, as she extends an arm and lets the silk whisper to the floor.

She’s more beautiful than the sculpture of Venus, the marble she is cast from more radiant and lacking imperfections. Her age is not apparent in the supple curves of her long frame. Your mouth goes dry as all the moisture pools in a rush between your thighs. You approach the bed as she crawls upon it, reclining herself on her side against the swath of plush pillows at the head. She sees your hesitation as you linger by the bedside. You’re not nervous about what’s to come, but more unsure of whether you truly deserve such intimate attention from this glowing goddess. She pats the space beside her with an indulgent smile, “Come now, I won’t bite,” but the twinkle in her eye says that she most definitely will.

You settle in beside her, propping your head in your hand on a bent elbow. Her hand reaches for you, fingers dancing delicately down the dip of your waist and back up as it rises to meet your hip. She smiles as she makes the journey in reverse, then skates her wandering fingers to tickle against your ribs before settling on your heavy breast. “These are lovely,” she murmurs, drawing a slow circle around your nipple before she scrapes her blunt nail against the rigged bud. You gasp at the sensation, drawing a slow chuckle from her parted lips as she eyes you with an intensity that sets your skin alight. 

She shifts her body closer and leans into your upturned face, holding your gaze until you’re so close you can taste her breath on your tongue. When her lips finally meet yours, you moan gently and she smiles against your lips before sweeping her tongue between them to slip inside the hot cavern of your mouth. Her thumb traces the notched column of your throat as the kiss deepens and your hand eventually finds the slope of her hip and you draw yourself closer to her radiating heat. When you break apart, you’re both breathing heavy and your fingers are curled into the pillowy softness of her milky breast, while her hand kneads your firm ass.

She rolls onto her back and shifts herself until only her head rests on the pillows. Her raven locks, shot through the temples with starlight, fan out in an inkspill around her head like a crown. Looking up, she offers you a wicked smile. “Come, I want to know if you taste as divine as all the things you cook for me.” Blood rushes through your ears, almost deafening in it’s urgent surge to your throbbing cunt. Holding your breath, you swing a leg across her body and move yourself to straddle her striking face. She inhales deeply and smiles before pressing an open mouthed kiss against your trembling inner thigh. 

A breathless sigh falls from your parted lips when her regal mouth finally envelopes your sticky sex. She moans, deep in her throat, with the first languid pass of her exquisite tongue, sending the vibration deep into your tightly clenching stomach. “Fuuuuuck,” spills out, riding the crest of a shaky breath as you feel yourself sinking beneath the waves and her hands wrap around your hips, long fingers curling into the juncture between hip and thigh. Her tongue softly traces the hollows between your frills as it makes slow passes against the full length of your slit. You scrap your palms against your heaving breasts, crushing them into your chest as the pleasure quickly builds.

Suddenly her tongue sinks deep into your clenching heat and your eyes fly open as you look down to watch her feast. Her gaze peers up between your thighs, igniting with a ravenous heat as she again plunges her tongue into your depths, sucking loudly as she draws back out again. You fall slightly forward, scrambling for purchase against the heavy mahogany headboard, holding your breath against the orgasm that’s blindingly close upon the horizon. When her tongue meanders back up to your clit again, you grow rigid, eyes snapping shut as a meteor shower of sensation crashes like an atomic bomb through your body. A long, wanton groan rips free from your slack mouth as the white hot orgasmic release sends pulse after pulse of tingling pleasure from your core. Your body trembles of its own accord as you slump against the headboard, barely cognizant enough to support your weight so you don’t crush the superb woman beneath you.

When you finally float back and feel the gentle scrap of her fingernails against your outer thighs, you move off. Legs heavy and body weak, you collapse in a heap beside her. “God Joan, that was….fuck….” you trail off, brain still too short circuited to come up with some eloquent poetry on the mindblowing orgasm she just gave you. With a smug smile, she leans in and places a lingering kiss against your neck. Your arm rests heavy across your eyes as you continue to try and regulate your breathing, the pulses radiating from your cunt down to your toes slowly fading away.

You feel her shift beside you as she retrieves something from the bedside table and with an indulgent sigh you drop your arm from your face and open your eyes. In her hand is a beautifully sculpted glass dildo, with a smooth ridge spiraling around the length of its shaft. She traces the tip with the index finger of her other hand, a coy smile drawing her full lips into her cheeks. Tilting it towards you, she lifts a brow, “Suck,” she commands huskily and watches with needy anticipation as you eventually lean in and take the crystalline girth into your mouth. She watches you work for a few moments, her nostrils flaring as her breathing grows more shallow and erratic.

“I want you to fuck me with this, like you’d fuck yourself.” She purrs when you draw away and hands the dildo to you as she settles against the pillows again. Her legs fall open to expose her glistening slit, offering herself fully to you to orchestrate her pleasure. You shift yourself between her thighs, hooking your legs beneath hers and she reaches for your feet, wrapping her fingers around your toes as she watches you expectantly. You take the shaft into your mouth once more, wrapping your tongue around it to coat it in ample lubrication.

Watching her as you press it to her slit, you apply just enough pressure for it to slip between her folds. She sighs in pleasure as it presses firmly against her clit before you begin your slow exploration of her slick sex. You use the smooth glass to tease her, tracing her dusky pink frills with the tip of the glass toy, varying the pressure as you circle around her opening. When you finally push it inside, she lifts her hips, moaning at the welcome intrusion as you sink it deep into the well of her hot cunt.

The thumb of your opposite hand comes to rest against her clit, massaging slow, tight circles against the rising nub as you continue your steady thrust and slow twists of the toy. Her breathing grows ragged, coming in rough exhales from her flared nostrils as you work her to the point of ecstasy. “More,” she husks, her dark eyes reflecting animal need as she fixes you with a lusty stare, chest heaving and fingers sliding up to unconsciously pin your ankles against the mattress. Her hips begin to gyrate as you increase the rhythm of your thrusts, sinking the shaft hard and deep, feeling her walls tightening around the slick intrusion. Suddenly her hips surge from the bed and a guttural moan issues from deep inside, her toes and torso curling in on themselves as the orgasm seizes her muscles into a spasm of rapture.

You watch in splendid fascination as the woman comes completely undone, eventually collapsing against the bed, chest heaving wildly as her body goes limp. Gently slipping the toy from inside her, she shudders with a whimper as you draw it away and place it on the bedside table. Wordlessly, she beckons you beside her and snakes long limbs around you as you settle into the curvature of her body. She sighs indulgently, eventually leaning in to bestow a tender kiss to the soft waves of your hair.

“Bellissima,” she whispers from above, before you both drift off into the land of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Just throwing it out there: Spataro is a Sicilian surname meaning "sword-maker". I thought it quite fitting for Joan, since there's nothing that I could find that's anywhere similar to Ferguson. Giovanna is often shortened or translated to Joan in English.


End file.
